


The Blind Circle

by breathedout



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: (sort of), And a huge clueless lesbian, Demons in their off hours, F/F, Look eight hundred attempts is a lot for anyone to go through y'know, POV Outsider, Political organizer Vicky, Tahani is a bad actress, The demons would like you to consider that this constitutes a hostile work environment, Time Loop, Vicky is dedicated to her craft, Voyeurism, Yikes, Yikes Vicky, and Eleanor is three thousand percent done, of the type who SAYS diverse input is important but then monopolizes the meeting anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 12:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: Yet Tahani doing "simple pleasure" was like someone imitating a facial expression described to them once in an email, seventy years ago, by a person they had never actually met. It was almost like…Vicky's eyebrows did not rise. Her eyes did not widen; her shears remained steady. Snip, snip.Vickywas a professional.





	The Blind Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cdybedahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdybedahl/gifts).



> Happy Femslash Exchange, cdybedahl! 
> 
> Thanks as always to my steadfast greywash for a quick once-over which I may or may not have time to address before this goes live!

### 1\. The Ensemble Monologue (Attempt #1)

"It's just, like. First day in a new job, you know? I wanted to start out on the right _note_."

"Mmm," Tracy said, and topped up Vicky's glass of blood-and-bourbon. Her third. It killed the carafe. Tracy signalled to Greg for another.

"This?" Vicky said, and she made a vague gesture. To the bar, sure: regulars half-in, half-out of their human suits, most of the core improv team here to toast what was supposed to have been Vicky's big debut. Yet here she was, not the shining star after all but parked at the bar, nursing her drink, Tracy trying gamely to cheer her up while Gayle and Gunnar passed the time with a lackadaisical session of live-target darts, Greg poked his beak into a blood-bladder to refill their carafe, and Merpati, smoking a cigar at the other end of the bar, eyed the both of them like you couldn't pay her to pass the time of day. The less than celebratory atmosphere, okay, you know what, _grim_ , the _grim_ atmosphere—it's not exactly what Vicky had envisioned for her opening night. So sure, when she gestured like that, she was gesturing at the bar. The bar, the street, the whole neighborhood; her own chances of a meteoric rise to underworld super-stardom; and more specifically, to a certain mansion down the street. "This?" she said again. " _Not_ the right note."

"You can't blame yourself," Tracy insisted. "If Michael didn't predict it, you couldn't have—

" _That_ clown," Vicky said.

'Come on. You couldn't have done. And anyway, you're still indispensable for Chidi's plotline."

"I know," Vicky said. "I know, I just—we _talked_ about this. I was supposed to _exceed_ expectations. I was supposed to wow everyone with the triple-pronged attack. Eleanor and Tahani pitted against each other and—"

"— _and_ Chidi tortured by indecision, I know. I know," Tracy said. With a squawk and a rustle of feathers Greg slid the new carafe down the bar; Tracy stopped it with her wrist. "It's disappointing." 

"Right! And now it's like, okay, I'm not _behind_ , right, that's something—"

"Definitely." 

"But I was supposed to be _ahead_ at this point. And I mean—I know things are going to go wrong, not everything goes to plan, I know that, every new challenge is just—"

"—more material to work with," Tracy chimed in, being the only improv group member close enough to hear the setup in time to recite this piece of wisdom unison. Behind the bar, Greg clicked his beak, and turned his back on the pair of them. 

They clinked their glasses together. Vicky threw back her drink, then cradled her head in her hands. She could feel her hair curling against her skin on either side of her head, where tendrils of steam were leaking out of her ears. 

"You could, you know," Tracy said, "look at it as an opportunity to hone your craft."

"Ugh," said Vicky, and Tracy patted her arm. 

"Tomorrow," Tracy suggested. Vicky, despite herself, snickered. 

"I just feel like, I did _everything_ right," she said. "And _almost_ everything _went_ right. A hint to Eleanor that she's in love with Chidi, a nudge to Tahani that Chidi might be her soulmate, the two of them rushing to the same place to confess their love, and then—"

"Then you took the afternoon off."

"You—what more could I have done?" At this Gayle looked over at the both of them, then back at Gunnar, mouthing: _Yikes_. Well, screw her, anyway. Like they couldn't all remember Gayle making a spectacle of herself with that Bathym asshole the night they'd all arrived from the Bad Place proper; but Gayle never missed an opportunity to be judgy, did she. Still, Vicky lowered her voice to say, "I couldn't very well stand around listening to their confessions, could I? Anyway, anyone would have thought it was done and dusted. This is like, first-level manipulation. _Obviously_ I'd come back a couple hours later and the two of them would be tearing each others' eyes out. No fuss, no muss. Instead? I come back to Tahani's place after a simple five-course lunch at Patricia's, and find those two benches—oh, for—drinking _Champagne_ together and doing each other's _hair_. I mean! What went wrong, you know? What could I have done differently? It's just—such an _inconvenience_!"

"Mmm," Tracy said. "How _is_ that lunch at Patricia's, by the way?"

"Not forking worth blowing your first day at a new gig over!" 

The howling of Gunnar and Gayle's live target nearly drowned out the sound of Tracy's sigh, but not the pointed look she exchanged with Greg. Vicky felt mulish. But also, looking back on the evening maybe kind of a little bad. 

"Get there early," she said, grudgingly; and Tracy turned back to her with a smile that Vicky thought didn't _have_ to be that _obviously_ relieved. 

"I've been meaning to try it," she said; and she must have signalled to the others, because Gayle and Gunnar wandered over, and even Merpati was looking their way. 

"Yeah," Vicky told her. "Go on an afternoon when there's confirmation our four charges are all busy. Patricia's serving live maggots presented in human pelvic girdle; it's great."

  
  


### 2\. The Machine of Emotions (Attempt #32)

The little bell on the door jingled. Vicky looked up from black waves in time to catch the eye of Glen, in his role of Gary the deliveryman—who _winked_ at her for no in-character reason at all. The unprofessionalism of him. Eleanor, true, was gesturing wildly at the space beside the back of Tahani's head, while Tahani seemed riveted to her own half-shorn reflection. Still. On the off chance they'd noticed, and in the spirit of "Yes, and," Vicky plastered on a flirtatious grin and winked back at him. Rosalie was a flirt, anyway, and Michael had started getting lax about public soulmate assignments after that disaster in Attempt #28. Gary it was, Vicky thought. Glen'd probably seen the humans heading into Rosalie's salon, and made a beeline straight for them, unable to let her have her day in the sun. Attention-whore.

"Rose!" said Gary. "Package for you."

"Oh," Tahani piped up. "Delightful—do you go by Rose?"

"Only to my closest friends," Vicky said; and because she was an excellent actress it didn't come out between her teeth. Picking their own names had been the single Shawn-forsaken perk of the last three reboots, as far as she was concerned—as Glen, the bastard, well knew. But the character Rosalie, as she and Tracy had developed her at improv the previous Tuesday, was a nauseatingly perky type with an overly-developed instinct for bonhomie; so Vicky followed this up with: "Which includes everyone in this neighborhood, of course!" 

"I understand," Tahani said, and she reached back to pat Vicky's arm. "I was only asking because one of my _dear_ friends, who uses Rosamund professionally, signs herself Rose to me and her parents and—well, I think only to those of use who've known her from a child, at the Royal Opera. Of course I wouldn't dream of using the name for her with just anyone." 

"Right," said Vicky, letting Rosalie continue to smile stupidly into the mirror as Gary pecked her on the cheek. She set down her shears, and signed for his package, half-turned so that afterward she could meet his eyes: all Vicky, no Rosalie. "Have a good rest of your day, Hon!" she said, and slapped him on the ass. 

"Oh, I will, sugarpumpkin," said Glen, and backed out of the salon, whistling. Eleanor, distracted, followed him out with her eyes. 

"Why are there delivery people in the Good Place?" she asked. "Can't Janet just magic up whatever anyone needs?"

"Oh," Vicky said, with relish, picking up her shears again and and pinning up the top layers of Tahani's hair. "She could, of course. But it was Gary's life-long ambition to deliver packages."

"Really," Eleanor said.

"Mmm," said Vicky, warming to her story. "But none of the carriers would have him, on account of his bad back. So he resorted to being Secretary-General of Amnesty International, instead. Whereas _my_ life-long fantasy, what got me through the long nights between the pro-bono cosmetic reconstruction of the faces and hair of burn victims, and the community organizing for fair labor practices in salons, was imagining a _passionate_ one-night stand with the delivery man who brought in my office supplies. Evan, his name was. He was a dreamboat."

"Yeah, sister," Eleanor said. "I hear that."

Under Vicky's hands, Tahani sighed. "The two of you were meant to be, then," she said, so quietly that Vicky almost missed it. 

Vicky wondered again at the enduring appeal of the soulmate fallacy in human culture. If she was going to keep taking human parts—if she was going to really _sell_ them, whether to demon-only audiences or, ideally, in wider breakthrough roles—then she would need to find an "in" to the psychology at play. Classes, maybe? A course of reading in human literature? Despite her instinctive shudder, the yuck factor might be worth the reward. Tahani certainly looked convincingly miserable, sitting in the salon chair, thinking about the supposedly fated bond between stylist Rosalie and deliveryman Gary. 

To Tahani all she said, in Rosalie's chipper voice, was "Like you and Edward!" 

"Oh, yes," said Tahani, twisting a piece of her skirt fabric between two fingers. "Yes, I can hardly stand to be apart from my dear Edward. Indeed."

"Did you ever make it happen on earth?" asked Eleanor. "The hot delivery man thing?"

"Oh, gosh no," said Rosalie. "Who had the time?" 

Eleanor, who couldn't very well admit that back on Earth she'd had plenty of time for casual flings with Glen-like mediocrities, didn't answer this. She did look thoughtful, though, when Vicky glanced up from the half-bob she'd now given Tahani. 

"Maybe that's—" Eleanor said, and didn't finish. She was gazing into space in the general direction of Tahani's reflection. Tahani, though, Vicky thought, was looking right _at_ Eleanor's reflection, and she didn't look away until Rosalie caught her eye in the mirror. At which point, caught out in— _something_ —she shifted around in her seat, plastering on a wholly unconvincing smile. 

That was what really _got_ Vicky about the whole thing. The whole experiment. The whole, supposedly innovative, having-to-talk-to-humans-in-order-to-torture-them boondoggle. It was bad enough that she'd signed on for something next door to a starring role, and had then spent the next thirty-one attempts as a bit player. It was bad enough that the level of insightful direction Michael offered her, slight as it had ever been, was managing to decline even further. But more than all that, what really chapped her ass was that Tahani—this supposed _star_ of the whole _show_ —Tahani, who might not have known, in the way Vicky knew, that she was living out a slice of eternity on a stage constructed for the sole purpose of torturing her, but who was nevertheless consciously performing her part _constantly_ , all the time—this star, a literal center of this small universe—she was _terrible_ at her part. Just. Awful. Utterly unconvincing by every possible metric. Tahani had spent her thirty-odd years on Earth honing this single persona, building a life and a reputation on this _one_ character, this one-note character whose bedrock bit was giving the impression of being constantly pleased and delighted; and she was fucking _dreadful_ at being Tahani Al-Jamil. She was painful to watch. And this from Vicky, who had spent four hundred years in the Bad Place sector devoted to staging middle-school productions of Broadway musicals. From Vicky, who more often than not, in improv group, had to partner _Glen_. 

It was a hard pill to swallow, Vicky thought, snipping at Tahani's hair as Eleanor monologued about her supposed soulmate, Travis, and Tahani listened to her with a horrifying rictus of a smile. Sometimes, Vicky wondered who was meant to be tortured in this scenario: Tahani, or the theater-going public, or Vicky herself. I mean, she thought—swapping out for her longer-bladed shears—if someone sets out to build a character they're going to hold for, whatever, two hundred years or however long humans normally live, then why the Shawn wouldn't they pull from their strengths? By all means, craft a character who's constantly pleased because you have a vast internal store of pleasure to draw from. Maybe it's natural to you to appear delighted in any situation. Fine, good! Vicky herself always used the memories of her starring song-and-dance number down at the organ-refrying pit when she wanted to conjure sensual pleasure or childlike glee: a technique whose results her acting coach called "grotesquely convincing." Tahani, on the other hand. Vicky looked at her in the mirror. Tahani trying to act pleased and delighted reminded Vicky, more than anything, of Gayle and Gunnar trying to put on a good face for Michael after they ruined Attempt #25 trying to get sent back to their old jobs but were, for obvious reasons, kept on instead. But then, Vicky thought, neither Gunnar nor Gayle had ever taken center stage at the organ-refrying pit: they couldn't mine the experience like Vicky could. Whereas Tahani—Tahani was a _human woman_ , Vicky thought. She had _been_ a child; she had _had_ a body. Yet Tahani doing "simple pleasure" was like someone imitating a facial expression described to her once in an email, seventy years ago, by a person she had never actually met. It was almost like—

Vicky's eyebrows did not rise. Her eyes did not widen; her shears remained steady. Snip, snip. _Vicky_ was a professional. 

"It's just, it seems like," Eleanor was saying. "You and Gary, you're both getting things here that you wanted in life, but didn't get. Same deal with Tahani and Edward." Tahani's shoulders tensed under Vicky's hands, because she was an amateur incapable of fully inhabiting her one and only role. "He was, like, _royalty_ when he was alive, so now she's sort of an after-the-fact princess, which is what she wanted in life, but didn't get."

"Actually," Tahani said, "I had a _number_ of liaisons that could have been termed—" 

"But not in like, a long-term, for-real way," Eleanor said. 

"No," Tahani said. "Not in a—not like that. As you say."

"But for me," said Eleanor, "with Travis. He's honestly like—well, he's just like the guys I dated when I was alive, you know? I mean, _better_ than most of them, obviously, but that's not a high bar." She glanced at Vicky—at Rosalie. She couldn't say too much, plainly, or Rosalie would catch on. But she hadn't glanced at Tahani, Vicky thought. Had she. If they'd been alone, she was positive, Eleanor would have kept right on talking. Which meant that the two of them—interesting. And who'd started _that_ conversation, Vicky wondered. What would lead Eleanor to choose Tahani—or _Tahani_ to choose _Eleanor_ —?

In any case Eleanor must have figured it couldn't be against the code of the Good Place to date losers, as long as you weren't one yourself, because she said, "But he's more or less like everyone I ever dated. Built; eager to please; not too smart but not dumb enough that I have to do a lot for him. It's like—it's _familiar_ , you know? Maybe that's why it feels…"

"How?" said Vicky, because Tahani, despite _sitting forward in her chair_ to listen, like a so that Vicky had to pull her back by the shoulders, was apparently not going to ask. 

"I don't know," Eleanor said. "Maybe I thought—it seems like everyone else was… surprised. _I've_ been surprised, just." 

"Not by him," Vicky said. Eleanor looked up at her, and there was a worryingly familiar glimmer in her eye. Another week, Vicky thought. _Maybe_. It's not like she was surprised: she could've told Michael that an attempt where everyone got exactly what they'd thought they wanted in life, would not be a keeper. Well, she thought, at least she wouldn't be saddled with Glen as a pseudo-soulmate for very long. But then Eleanor shook it off and smiled, big and sunny. 

"I mean, don't get me wrong," she said. "The sex? Fan-forking- _tastic_."

"Girl," said Rosalie, and shook her head as Eleanor cackled. " _Tell_ me about it."

"What can I say?" said Eleanor. "This place obviously just knows what we like."

"Gary and I could hardly get out of bed for the first decade we were here." 

"Awww, I hear you, girl," said Eleanor, laughing, and Vicky looked at Tahani in the mirror and thought she knew who had started the conversation between them. Tahani might not know, like Vicky knew, and like Eleanor _obviously_ knew, how to chill out and just feel good for a little while, let the body want what it wants and fuck tomorrow. She probably didn't even know that she wanted that. But you could say this for her, Vicky thought: her one-note character just got a lot more compelling. 

It was a matter of professional courtesy, then, that Vicky did what she did. Professional courtesy and just a little spite: because if Vicky could pretend to be crazy about the idea of jumping into the sack with the likes of Glen, then Tahani could damn well laugh her fake sparkling laugh and say _Oh yes, Edward and I are just the same_. And so, under cover of straightening out the left side of her bob, Vicky dug her fingertips into the back of Tahani's neck. Tahani blinked, and straightened her spine; and so when Eleanor finished cracking up, moaning that her stomach hurt from laughing, Tahani had fixed herself, and Eleanor didn't see the odd slump of her shoulders, or the bright bewildered look in her eyes.

  
  


### 3\. The Monster Calls All Those Who… (Attempt #116)

"What? No," came a familiar voice, from the direction of the Skagensmalerne Room. "No, I was—this is so nice." 

"It's just. You seem… preoccupied."

"Preoccupied! Not at all." From across the corridor Vicky grinned at Tracy, who had groused about being interrupted in her composition exercises when Vicky had summoned her, but looked amused enough now she was here, just getting into position with Gunnar. Vicky raised her eyebrows and Tracy giggled. From the other room, but nearer now, Chidi went on, "Just—enjoying an afternoon out. With my soulmate. This is nice. Isn't this nice?"

Tahani didn't answer. Tracy laughed again, then smoothed her face and took Gunnar's arm. Together they turned, pretending to admire a Walter Withers landscape in which a pair of fossickers chatted by a eucalyptus. 

Vicky had already been in a good mood that day, even before Chidi and Tahani's impromptu museum outing. Good moods, she'd noticed, had reentered her existence around Attempt #80. And not just for her: it seemed like everyone in the neighborhood had heaved some kind of collective sigh around that time, and slid into a more or less cheerful resignation to their situation. Sure, they were locked in a kind of inescapable time-loop tedium of which the powers below were, for the time being, unaware; and sure, it had long ago become evident that Michael's gonzo experiment had no real chance of ever succeeding; and sure, they would probably all be encased in goo, or torn limb from limb by their former coworkers when this fact was discovered; but really, what was the point in worrying? It wasn't like any of them hadn't been subjected to a little limb-tearing or goo-dipping from time to time. Retiring them completely would be a bureaucratic nightmare, and as much as the lower-downs loved pointless paperwork they hated having to create anything from scratch, which would be necessary if the entire population of a neighborhood were scrapped. When it came down to it, the inhabitants of Neighborhood 12358W seemed to realize—wandering around #80's disco-themed decor, studded with cottage-cheese shops—this was how they lived, at least for now; and there was no reason not to relax into it and enjoy the ride. If nothing else, with only four humans, who were off by themselves more often than not, there was more leisure time in this gig than in the Disemboweling Department. Tracy had taken up composing for the five-dimensional painhorn, and Todd had improved his corpse-put distances by a solid half-meter. Vicky herself had been directing a production of _HMS Pinafore_ , reconceptualized to take place in a futuristic office building, and go on for nineteen hours. There was a general feeling, Vicky thought, that against all odds this might actually be sustainable. The reboots, the absurd confusion of it all, the whirl and the suffering. This, in some sense, could _work_. 

And moments like this one were icing, really. Vicky had already felt like whistling, pinning on her docent badge that morning, thinking about a new approach to the staging on Little Buttercup's 12-tone lament in the office-supply storage capsule, and now here she was, presented, as an extra bonus, with the opportunity to needle some humans. 

Chidi and Tahani still weren't speaking, but the tap-tap of Tahani's heels was very close, now. Vicky glanced over her shoulder and there they were: Chidi's elbow awkwardly outstretched from his body, his posture as usual ramrod-erect and his gaze straight ahead, while Tahani in pink organza, with her arm linked loosely through his elbow, trailed at his side, listless eyes on the paintings. She caught Vicky's gaze; gave her a little smile. Docent Ishita smiled encouragingly back, and Tahani looked away.

"I love the use of light, here," Tahani said. They were strolling past the Ancher just behind Vicky and to the right: five white women in pastels, walking along the seashore. _You would_ , Vicky thought. The center two were in luxe fabrics, lace and gossamer shawls. The final two, in simpler white, were holding hands. 

"Hm," said Chidi, distractedly.

"So lovely," said Tahani. She drew to a stop, which Vicky could have predicted. Said, "They look—happy." 

"Mmm," Chidi said, and Tahani sighed. 

"You're still thinking of Eleanor." 

"She's just," Chidi said, at once, "so _infuriating_." Not even trying to deny it: gold, Vicky thought. Solid gold. She hoped Tracy and Gunnar were close enough to hear what was going on. Vicky got out Ishita's compact mirror so as to watch behind herself unobtrusively. 

Tahani was gazing, still, at the Ancher. "Then perhaps you ought not to spend so much time with her," she said, and then, as an afterthought: "darling."

Chidi didn't answer, because of course he couldn't: the conceit of this particular attempt was to use Eleanor's little ethics lessons as a wedge between Chidi and his supposed soulmate Tahani, who didn't know about them and was duty-bound, because of a clever little series of ploys that Merpati had come up with, to report both teacher and student if she ever caught wind of what they were up to. This was effective torture for lie-averse Chidi, of course, and also had had the elegant effect of getting in the way of the intimacy between Eleanor and Tahani, which seemed to regrow in every version like a surprisingly engrossing weed.

"I—she's not so bad," Chidi said. 

"But you just said she was infuriating."

"I was just. Joshing." 

"Joshing," Tahani repeated, rolling the word around in her mouth like she was being careful of its sharp edges. 

"You know!" said Chidi, and laughed frantically. "Like friends do! Just. Joshin' about my pal Eleanor!" 

"Ah," said Tahani. "Well. That's a relief." 

"Yes!" said Chidi. "Yes! And look at—well, that is a lovely use of light."

"Because I'd like to be _pals_ with Eleanor too, you know," Tahani went on. "Maybe all three of us could—"

"Look how it just—comes through the lace of the parasol," Chidi said, and Vicky almost laughed aloud. "And that shawl—would that have been an Indian shawl, in 1896? Were they importing from India to rural Danish islands?" 

Vicky almost hated to interrupt, but—an idea occurred. 

"Certainly," she said, as Ishita, stepping forward to meet them both. Tahani actually blushed in frustration, although Chidi looked about ready to faint with relief. "Via England," Ishita explained. "So often rural or colonial Impressionisms share this preoccupation with careful renderings of imported goods and fabrics. Status markers that would have been that much more difficult to obtain at a remove from the population centers. One of my favorite examples—would you like to—"

"Oh, we don't—" Tahani started, at the same time Chidi shouted "Yes! Of course!" 

"—see? It's just through here." 

Vicky gestured into the next room, toward Tracy and Gunnar; Tahani couldn't find any gracious way to refuse. The two of them trailed after her, still arm in arm, through the door and past Tracy and Gunnar, coming to a stop halfway down the near wall. 

"Now this piece," Vicky said. "Just a few years earlier than the Ancher you were looking at before, but Roberts was working out of Melbourne, Australia. More of a population center than Skagen, but very aware of its status as a not-yet-independent colony—especially as the artist had studied in London and the capitals of Europe before returning to Australia. You can see the focus on imported luxury goods: the screen that the figure in the foreground is seated in front of, the large painted fans in her right hand and above her on the wall. The painted vases at the corner of the room, obscuring her from the other two figures' view. And of course the fabric of the two women's dresses: in particular, the pink taffeta and black velvet on the woman in the background, both of which would have been rare and expensive in that time and place."

All of this, outside the bare facts listed on the informational plaque, could be more or less nonsense. What mattered for Vicky's purposes was not the richness of the fabrics or the painting on the fans, but the blocking of the painting: the single woman in the foreground, in white, her hands clutching at her skirt and her fan, her shocked gaze fixed before her, and her attention riveted on the couple hidden from her view: a woman in pink, seated, gazing flirtatiously up at a man standing just behind her chair, looking down. If the woman in pink had tipped her head back, she could have rested it against his waistcoated stomach. Vicky, as Ishita, stood to the side of the painting, so that she could continue to look at it while also observing the observers. 

"Fascinating use of space," Chidi was saying. "The claustrophobia, the—she's surrounded by beautiful objects, but she's very trapped, isn't she. Just that tiny glimpse of the outside world." 

"Which is interesting," Ishita agreed, as Tahani chewed on her own lip, "since Roberts was primarily known for his plein air scenes." Tahani's hand came up; then she pulled it back. It had been angled, Vicky noticed, not toward the figure in the foreground, excluded from the happy couple, but toward the woman in pink. "But here, as you say: access to the outside is blocked off, both for the viewer and for the woman in white."

"Even within the interior space," Chidi said, "she's hemmed in, she can't move. Can't go to him; can't escape. It's like the room becomes a crucible for her jealousy. Her fury." 

"Her terror," Tahani said, under her breath; "Exhaustion," and then: "Pardon me, I'm—ladies." And she unlinked her arm from Chidi's, and clicked rapidly away.

Vicky, looking after her, caught herself thinking: _Fascinating_.

  
  


### 4\. Third Person Enters the Room (Attempt #218)

"You're _obsessed_ ," Tracy hissed. "Obsessed!" 

"Hand me the size-six skates," Vicky said. "You don't think it's riveting?" 

"I think you're the latest one to get hit by the bug, and you should feel free to eat all those _Oh it'll never happen to me, I just don't understand its_ at your leisure." 

" _What_ ," said Vicky. "This is _not_ the same as—what."

"Remember Version 167? How Gunnar was convinced the Jason-as-brain-surgeon gambit was the key to making the whole thing work?"

"This isn't—this is _professional interest_ ," Vicky said. "I'm doing _research_ on their _motivations_."

Tracy shook her head, like she hadn't heard. "Happens to us all," she said. "You and Michael should go out for a seven-layer casserole and chat about your shared human fetish."

"Human fetish? Really? _Michael_??" 

Vicky could feel herself flailing, spluttering; but Tracy, with a Look, had traipsed off into the back to search for another pair of size-sixes, so unless someone else had sneaked behind the employees-only barrier separating the skate counter from the rest of the rink, she was at least flailing and spluttering unobserved. When Tracy came back, Eleanor's skates dangling from one hand, the Look was still going strong.

"Girl," Tracy said. "Look at yourself. You've got it bad. You're stalking them in your off hours. You're their meter reader, their beat cop. It's supposed to be the forkin' Good Place, Vicky. What _possible_ explanation could there be for cops in the Good Place?"

"I'm dedicated to my craft," said Vicky, who had avoided this exact question on multiple prior occasions. "And Tahani is like, a master-class in lack of self-awareness." 

"Uh huh," Tracy said. 

Vicky made a face at her, and took the skates. "Human fetish," she mumbled. " _Michael_."

Back at the front counter, Eleanor stood unnaturally straight: shoulders thrown back and her face alight with the reflections of Swarovski crystals, looking excruciatingly uncomfortable. Tahani's arm kept sneaking its way down her back, or around her shoulders. 

"Size sixes," Vicky said. 

"Thank you _so_ much," Eleanor said, with a forced smile, and bent stiffly at the waist to retrieve the skates. Tahani gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze, which turned into an unnecessary little massage. She was sliding her thumb under the high neck of Eleanor's skating getup. Vicky, who was a professional, did not laugh. 

"Sara," Tahani added, pointedly, squeezing Eleanor's neck. 

"Yeah—yes," Eleanor said. "Sara. Thank you _so_ much, Sara, for the—hey, don't I know you?" Tahani dug in her nails, but Eleanor went on, "Did you—aren't you our mail carrier?"

"Oh!" said Vicky. "Yes, I am. Funnily enough, in life I nursed dual passionate cravings to be a mail carrier and an ice rink attendant!" 

"Weird," said Eleanor.

"Darling!" Tahani said, admonishing. To Sara, she said: "I think it's _wonderful_ that we're all able to find here in the Good Place what we so craved in life." 

"Do you?" said Eleanor, under her breath. And: _there_ was that fixed grimace of a smile Vicky'd got so used to seeing on Tahani's face. 

"Totally wonderful," Vicky agreed, and then, "Nice dresses, by the way." Eleanor's posture went rigid again. 

"So lovely of you to say so!" said Tahani. "My dear friend Vera designed them for me and my other friend Michelle, back in 2002. Of course once _bosoms_ occurred, this would hardly have fit me anymore, but: Good Place magic!" She extracted her arm from Eleanor's shoulders for long enough to do a little twirl: vines of silver beading across the waist and up the sides and straps of a diaphanous purple mini-dress that flared around her thighs. Vicky thought she probably made the full circle quickly enough to catch a glimpse of the tip of Eleanor's tongue, wetting her bottom lip as she watched Tahani's legs. For a moment Tahani beamed. Then their gazes locked and became really complicated, really fast. Vicky had to fight the urge to start scribbling notes. 

She kept fighting it while the two of them strapped on their skates: Tahani scooting closer on the bench until she was practically sitting in Eleanor's lap. Vicky might _actually_ have started taking notes once they were out on the ice, except Tracy had come out to join her, and she suggested it. "You wish you had your notebook right now," Tracy said. "Because you've got the bug." After which Vicky could hardly give her the satisfaction of writing anything down.

"Look," Tracy said, gesturing out toward the ice, "I get it. We all get it; you were like, the last holdout. It's hard to stay committed, knowing they'll all end the same way. Only natural to buy into one version or another." 

"Oh my other guy," Vicky said. "This is _not_ like your thing with sending them all to sea with Chidi as captain. This version is different, it could _work_."

" _This_ version is _different_ ," Tracy echoed, mocking. " _It_ could _work_." 

"No, listen—if the lessons Eleanor's getting are based on _Tahani's_ version of being a good person, they're not so much ethics as etiquette. That plays to _zero_ of Eleanor's strengths. She might have the deeply—I mean _deeply_ —buried potential to be a _good_ person, but she ain't never gonna be a _nice_ person. Even with the threat of the Bad Place hanging over her head, and the bonus of regular naked touching time with—that—" Vicky gestured to the ice, where Tahani landed a flirty little spin and Eleanor, glowering, narrowly avoided falling over, "—she's already about to snap." 

Tracy slid her glasses down her nose and looked at Vicky over the top of them. This was extra annoying because Tracy's human suit didn't even wear glasses. She must have put a prop set in her bag _just_ for the opportunity to get dramatically skeptical with Vicky; so Vicky plucked them off her face. 

"Yeah," Tracy said, gesturing to the glasses, "but you didn't notice me putting them on, did you? You were too busy watching Eleanor and Tahani." 

" _Meanwhile_ ," Vicky said, "Tahani, who _I've_ known since like, the thirty-second attempt is the most deeply closeted lesbian I think I've ever met, is stuck having her big gay mind-blown awakening all alone, with only an uncouth plebian for company. And she doesn't even have Eleanor to talk to, like she's had in the last, like, hundred versions, because _she's_ supposed to be the one teaching _Eleanor_ how to be good."

"Mm hm," Tracy said. Out on the ice, Vicky noticed, both Eleanor and Tahani had vanished. She wondered how long that'd been. Merpati and Todd were taking the opportunity to do some tricks that were definitely not possible for anyone with human anatomy, so she supposed they must have been gone a little while.

"If this ends up taking," Tracy said, "you realize you're stuck being mail carrier, meter reader, beat cop, and ice rink attendant to a couple of unhappy lesbians for eternity." 

Vicky put her chin up, still looking out over the ice. "I thrive in a diversity of roles," she said. "I'm like the Peter Sellers of this outfit."

"My friend," Tracy said. "I've listened to you and I've considered your points. And I have this to say: Advanced. Human. Fetish."

"Ugh!" Vicky said. "I'm—going on break!"

"You're going to look for Eleanor and Tahani, you mean," Tracy called after her, but Vicky was already far enough away that she could pretend not to have heard. 

There were a limited number of places you could really disappear to inside the ice rink, without going back past the skate rental counter. Eleanor and Tahani were not having a refreshing snack of seven-layer casserole by the concession stand, and they weren't up on the observation balcony watching Todd melt a swathe of ice with his ungloved hand for Merpati to navigate on her skates, obstacle-course-style. That left the attached bar or the women's changing room, and of course, Vicky thought, catching a quickly-muffled moan from just outside the swinging door, of course it would be the changing room. Of course Eleanor would have Tahani backed up against the lockers; of course she'd have her bead-spangled purple fantasia of a suit yanked down to her waist, and her hand down the front of it with her pink arm still swathed in Swarovskis. Of course. 

Because of course Eleanor would have been, again, pushed to her breaking point. Panting, biting at Tahani's shoulder, "Is this what you wanted?" arm shoving down, out, unfazed by the awkward angle, "All day, with these _stupid_ outfits, the forking—thank you _so_ much, Sara, and hold the door for the lovely forking—"

" _Oh_ ," Tahani moaned, " _oh_ —" 

"—old ladies, _shirt_ , and I can't even forking curse when I'm—"

"Eleanor," Tahani said, her hands clamping tight onto Eleanor's sparkly shoulder and in Eleanor's hair which was sweat-limp, half-torn down from its perky little ponytail and Tahani's nails had to be digging into whatever they were touching, Eleanor's shoulder and her own palm. Her hands spasmed again and Eleanor _jolted_ and "Crêpes," she gasped, "you're forking strong—" as Tahani rolled her hips, bucked and rubbed into Eleanor's hand.

"Stupid—gorgeous— _ash hole_ ," Eleanor growled, and shoved in closer, and Tahani—

"Eleanor," Tahani said, like she'd run out of air, tensing; tipping her head back against the lockers so that Vicky could see her face. 

It was—different. Not just her O-face which was shocked-open, ripe-bursting with a kind of quaking disbelief and flooded full of nothing but itself. But in the moment after… 

"Eleanor," Tahani said again. Panted. Eleanor's arm hadn't even slowed down, but presumably she knew what she was doing.

"Yeah," Eleanor said. She kissed her, messy and mean, and Tahani leaned into it and let Eleanor hump her thigh through Spandex and Swarovskis and then Eleanor said, again, "This what you wanted? Huh? All day correcting my forking posture and how I talk were you wanting—"

" _Constantly_ ," Tahani said. Her voice was soggy. Ripped-up. "Constantly, why do I want it— _constantly_ when I never—in life, I didn't— _Ohhhh_."

"Can't be very _good_ of you," Eleanor said. "Can't be very _nice_ to be banging your student in the locker rooms of a—forking—family establishment just because you couldn't wait, you couldn't, you had to—"

So.

Vicky stood behind the towel stand for a while longer. She listened to Tahani gasp and moan and Eleanor demonstrate her frankly impressive hand strength and she thought about that time in the hair salon, attempts and attempts ago now, when Tahani had tried to draw on _something_ , anything, in her personal experience that would allow her to inhabit the role of genuine in-the-moment pleasure; and how she had come up short. 

With a kind of a numb deflating feeling, Vicky turned and left the changing room. She didn't particularly try to be quiet about it. This attempt would fail too, she realized; and with it her own elaborate web of minor characters, which honestly seemed kind of pathetic now, in retrospect, Vicky's idea that she could be in control of this whole insane arrangement if she just played enough eerily-content service industry professionals. She _wasn't_ in control. Tracy wasn't in control, and Michael for _sure_ wasn't in control: the fucked-up thing was that honestly, even though they didn't know it, the ones with the control were actually the humans. They just kept _giving_ each other things, was the problem. Even if they didn't mean to. They gave and gave, however much they took. 

Well, Vicky thought. Maybe—maybe it wasn't a complete loss. Yes, she'd become the latest victim of the wave of self-delusion that occasionally swept over the neighborhood. Yes, she'd made a fool of herself, and yes, Tracy would gloat. But maybe, she thought, there might be another use for all those notes she'd taken; all those notes Tracy had taken, and Gunnar, and the rest of them. Maybe in her focus on their creative potential, she'd missed something else. Something more… political. Maybe she just had to think outside the box.

  
  


### 5\. Gibberish with a Past Incident (Attempt #775)

"Okay!" Vicky yelled. "Let's all—order! Improv Group to order!" 

Amidst grumbling and shifting of chairs, the group settled. With the growth of Improv Group to include most of the inhabitants of Neighborhood 12358W, and with its gradual transformation into something closer to a campaign strategy think-tank than an acting seminar, they'd had to make some changes. For one thing, there were just too many members at this point for theatrical ice-breaker games to be an effective use of anyone's time. For another, theater-style seating had become a necessity. It just wasn't practical to seat seventy-some demons in a circle and expect them to hold hands. 

As a plus: there was now a podium, with a gavel, and Vicky got to bang it. Which was actually even more satisfying in real life than when she'd done it while playing Judge Hathorne in that comedic retelling of _The Crucible_. 

"Hi all," she said. "Thanks for coming. As we all know, we've got a new reboot to discuss: our two hundred and sixth since Improv Group began our campaign of intentionally undermining Michael. Just for context, since I know a few of you have been out on that Lake of Fire trip: this campaign was conceptualized as the first prong in a two-prong strategy: first, distract and further destabilize the power structures of the neighborhood as it stands, in order to, two, solidify our position when we step in and take collective power. As usual, Angelique is here as our stats wiz, to just give us a quick run-down on the progress we're seeing so far."

Angelique, who wasn't so bad, really, Vicky thought, as long as she wasn't being required to act, took Vicky's place at the podium. 

"Yeah!" she said. "Thanks, Vicky." She turned, widened her eyes, and projected beams of light from them onto the wall behind her, where a basic scatter-plot graph appeared. "Here we have the last two hundred and five attempts," Angelique explained, "with duration of attempt graphed against attempt start date. As Vicky mentioned, our goal was to decrease the average attempt length, in order to undermine Michael's authority and increase instability which we can then leverage." She blinked, and the graph disappeared briefly, only to reappear refit with a line amidst the points. "As you can see," Angelique said, "not only have we succeeded in decreasing average attempt duration, but the rate of decrease seems to be accelerating as we go on. After about Attempt #680, which is this point right here, the drop-off in attempt duration gets significantly more marked. There were a number of very short-lived attempts around that time, and we had discussed the possibility that they were skewing our results, but as you can see, the data have continued to support a steeper downward trend." Angelique blinked, and the graph vanished. She turned and smiled. "So good work, everyone!" 

"Thanks for that, Angelique," said Vicky, retaking the podium. "Yes, good work team! So, obviously, decreasing attempt duration means accelerating the realization on the part of one of the humans, usually but not always Eleanor, that they're actually here—" Vicky grinned, raising her hands cheerleader-style to scattered whoops and yells, "—in the Bad Place!" More cheers. Patricia, in back, blew a raspberry. "While, of course, maintaining plausible deniability that we're doing just the opposite. Special shout-out to Todd for that brilliant run of attempts where he manoevered Jason into having the epiphany. That was inspired, Todd, really. Michael had no idea what hit him, and he had even less idea it was you behind it." Everyone applauded, and Todd, in one of the panelist chairs in front, blushed magma-orange. 

"So today," Vicky went on, "we've got Todd here as our Jason expert, Tracy for Chidi-related insight, Merpati on Eleanor, and myself for any input on Tahani. As always, though, the presentations and panel discussion are just a starting point. This works best when we get input from all of you, so—right. Who wants to lead off? Merpati?"

"Thanks," said Merpati, "yeah. So, Michael's big concept on this run-through is essentially to sideline Eleanor. Of the four humans, she's still the one to come to the Bad Place realization a good—what're we at, Angelique?"

"Ninety-two percent of the time."

"Ninety-two, thanks. I don't know if Michael's running the numbers as carefully as Angelique here, but that's a pretty rough trend to miss. So in this one, he's trying to, to some extent, isolate Eleanor from the other humans—surround her with us, put her physically in a house on the outskirts of the neighborhood—and instead use _Tahani_ as the social glue holding the remaining three humans together."

"Sounds like it's your time to shine, Vicks," Todd said. 

"Well," said Vicky. "Great news: this is a _terrible_ concept, and we'll be strategizing on the next one before the week is out."

"Up the revolution!" someone shouted, to more whoops and laughter. 

"I think this really shows Michael's desperation," said Tracy. "He gets that it's the inter-human bonding that keeps tripping him up, so he's trying to reduce the opportunity for it, just like we're all trying to _increase_ that opportunity. But by taking Eleanor out of the equation, he's weakening his torture position so drastically vis-a-vis Chidi that I question how he could think it's worth it."

"Totally," said Merpati. "Agreed 100%, we've got him on the back foot. I mean, similar arrangements in the past—#345, #612—they've never been exactly promising, have they? And #497…"

She made a face, to scattered laughter throughout the crowd. At pub nights Gunnar still did his impression of the final moments of Attempt #497; Glen had once thrown up from laughing. 

"So," Vicky said, "proven strategies with Tahani. We know she's terrified of being alone, and also so divorced from the experience of genuine pleasure that she won't think to pursue it—but she _will_ react dramatically if she's exposed to it in a more… accidental way." Vicky stage-winked at the audience, to a few knowing jeers. "On the same note, we know she's gonna super reliably have her, you know, big lesbian epiphany if she gets half a chance, and will also have an intense need to verbally process about that. Those are both great developments for our purposes, because the personal growth means questioning the life she lived on Earth, and the need to process means human-to-human bonding, and both of those elements accelerate the end of the attempt. I think we all remember Attempt #96, when Eleanor and Tahani's drunken welcome-party hookup, post-coital confessions and summoning of Janet to help them find a teacher, led to an at-the-time record for attempt shortness." 

"Twenty-three point two hours," said Angelique.

"Good old Attempt #96," Vicky agreed. 

"Honestly," said Gayle, from the front row, "this is probably Michael's thinking in surrounding Tahani with men, this time around. Not just Jason and Chidi, but I know Glen and Bryan and Gunnar and Steve are her neighbors on either side. I mean, we know he's _noticed_ this thing of hers, he's tried to use it to his own advantage: Attempt Number—"

"Six hundred and forty," chorused the crowd. Vicky didn't stop herself mouthing the words along with them. 

"—Six hundred and forty," continued Gayle, who managed to bring up this attempt at nearly every meeting, the stage-stealer. "Where I was assigned as her soulmate but was then supposed to decide that sex with her wasn't for me." 

"Right," Vicky said, gritting her teeth. 

"And that backfired spectacularly," Gayle went on. "She was crying on Eleanor's shoulder about me within days, even though they'd barely met. It was all, oh your _labrador_ is _adorable_ , he's your soulmate you say?, isn't that lovely, _my_ soulmate doesn't _love_ me, and even though she thought Tahani was totally insane Eleanor was primed to listen because, you know. Being a Good Place mistake means she's alert to any other signs of misery. Also the dog wasn't much of a conversationalist."

"Though very cute," said Todd, and everyone nodded. 

"Super cute," Glen said. "That little thing with its paw."

"Actually," said Merpati, before Vicky could cut Gayle down to size, "I think that's a really useful case study here. Because it's that thing again where we, us here in this room, we can withhold bonding—that's what we're supposed to be doing, right, it's one of Michael's approved torture strategies, he can't complain that we're undermining the attempt—but if we do it _strategically_ , we can drive the humans into each other's paths. I mean, for Eleanor's part, since I'm here as the Eleanor expert: being on the receiving end of this kind of processing in a way where she feels useful, however torturous in the short term: that's a big trigger for _her_ personal growth and bonding responses. The sex or lack thereof is kind of… neither here nor there, as far as she's concerned, but the sooner we can get someone confiding in her—I mean it's a simplification, but given that 92% number, really, the sooner that happens the shorter the attempt is going to be."

It was a point. Vicky still would've liked to avoid handing the credit to Gayle, but she could read the room: she wouldn't win any points by arguing. She looked down at the smug little face smirking up at her from the front row. When Vicky was in Michael's place, she'd have a few choice ideas about _Gayle_. 

"All right," Vicky said now, clapping her hands. "Good ideas, all. So it's looking like this strategy will hinge on the same basic premise we used in Attempts 640 and 675."

"The hookup and withhold," Todd said. "A classic."

"The hookup and withhold," Vicky confirmed. "Since Eleanor will have Janet find her Chidi and Chidi will already know Tahani, it should be demon's play. We just need someone for the seduction portion of the plan, and remember: we have to sell it to Michael as both torture, and in-character." Come to think of it, Vicky thought, she was going to have a few choice ideas about a _lot_ of aspects of the neighborhood, when the tables turned. And they were going to be recognized for the brilliant inspiration that they were. And then Vicky would finally, _finally_ be able blow this podunk production all these idiots, and make it big. She smiled, bright and wide. "Volunteers?"

  
  


### 6\. Public Solitude (Earth)

Things didn't work out that way, of course. Instead she spent a solid three days encased in goo as Neighborhood 12358W imploded. She'd probably have been left to marinate for even longer if she hadn't succeeded in tipping over her cocoon across the full width of a hallway, where Shawn happened almost to trip over it when he was escorting Trevor to the door to Earth. He might not even have let her out then, except that Trevor had been pestering him for an assistant on his infiltration mission. _This_ infiltration mission, as a matter of fact. Shawn, exasperated, had promised him whatever was in the cocoon for an assistant, sight-unseen: so that, to add insult to injury, Vicky's casting in this particular role had literally no connection whatsoever to any of her myriad personal talents or charms. 

It was a low point. 

At least, it was theoretically a low point. She certainly had egg on her face. Trevor was right to gloat. Although in truth—as long as she remembered to play deaf when he suggested they pound it out, and drown out his droning the rest of the time—this wasn't too terrible, sitting here, in this restaurant. She was finally getting to use her Australian accent, so that was a plus. The fois gras was tasty, which was nice for her tongue and also satisfying because of the knowledge that suffering had brought it into being. The breeze from the harbor clocked in at just under a hundred degrees, which would have been on the cool side for Vicky except that after living for a few decades at human-conducive temperatures, it actually could not have felt better. She wiggled the toes of her human-suit in its sandals. At a table across the room, Tahani tipped her head back, and her sparkling, delighted, utterly unconvincing laugh cascaded into the room. 

Tahani had met with Chidi, and with Eleanor, that afternoon. Vicky and Trevor had been too late to stop it and anyway, Trevor seemed to be playing a longer game. They'd arrived on Earth in time to see Tahani leaving the university campus, a little smile playing around her mouth in the moment between greeting a passer-by who had approached her for a Kamilah autograph, and instructing the driver of her hired car to bring her here, to this restaurant, to meet her dear friend Cate. If Vicky had been Trevor, then that smile would have worried her. 

As it was, Vicky was not Trevor. Nor was she, any longer, the brains behind the running of Neighborhood 12358W. She wasn't the head of a political organizing committee, either, or of an improv group. Whatever she _was_ , which was presently unclear, it apparently wasn't someone who mentioned to Trevor that, an hour after meeting her for the first time, Tahani Al-Jamil was already charmed by self-professed Arizona dirtbag Eleanor Shellstrop. The thing was—

The thing was. Vicky had taught herself to look for these moments. Spotting them had become second nature, and now it seemed like she couldn't turn it off. She just zeroed in, without even meaning to, on the gaps in Tahani's appalling acting, and on what they meant. 

Like, right now: Cate leaned in, like she was telling Tahani a secret; and the whole—look at that, Vicky thought. Why would you smile like that, with that weird fixed mouth position? Why would you hold your body like that, like Tahani was doing? Did she think there were cameras? Even if there were, where did she think they were positioned? Was she getting ready to film a porno with Cate Blanchett, right here in a five-star restaurant on Sydney Harbour? Did her unnaturalness bother _Cate_? It didn't seem like it bothered Cate. But then, it _wouldn't_ seem like that, Vicky thought, smearing another toast with fois gras, and stuffing it into her mouth. Cate might be enjoying herself for real, or she might be miserable and putting it on. You would never know because Cate was an accomplished actress with a shelf of awards and, presumably, a whole host of genuinely pleasurable life experience to draw from. Whereas Tahani… From an artistic perspective, the only remotely compelling time during this meal to look at Tahani was when she was watching Cate, and Cate, for whatever reason, was looking away. 

Across the table from Vicky, Trevor was cackling. He was talking; looking up something on his phone; Vicky hadn't paid attention since they'd sat down. Tahani got up to go to the ladies' room, which for some reason delighted him. 

"Okay," he said. "Here's what you do. The Al-Jamil parental units are opening a new charitable institute, right? With Kamilah as public figurehead, natch. But if you go in there and mention that you ran into them at a fundraiser the other night, they brought up Miss Thing over there instead of her sister, blah blah blah, they're so impressed at the new leaf she's turned over, yada yada: and boom, she's on a plane back to London before Blondie has time to get through the autograph hounds."

Which, Vicky thought… might work. Would probably not work. Might result in Tahani spending 48 hours on a plane only to end up back in Sydney, having pissed off Chidi and the other study participants to a mild but not irretrievable degree. It was overall a pretty stupid plan, honestly. But Vicky was the assistant, so Vicky smiled, and got up, and went and stood by the mirror in the ladies' washroom. She touched up her eyeliner, and wiped at a smudge of mascara on her cheek. There was a flush, and Tahani came out of the middle stall, straightening her gown about herself. Tahani washed her hands, and Vicky reapplied her lipstick, her eyes wide like human women made theirs, her mouth open but not speaking. Tahani caught her eye in the mirror; smiled at her. It was no Eleanor smile, Vicky thought, but it wasn't bad. Tahani took a packet out of her bag, and took a special cloth out of the package, and patted at her face with the cloth. Vicky couldn't see much of a difference. She must have been staring because Tahani caught her eye again, then turned from the mirror to look at her directly, and it almost seemed like she was going to say something. Like she _recognized_ Vicky, even—though that, of course, was ridiculous. In the end she said nothing, and Vicky said nothing. Just one more little smile, before Tahani turned and left the bathroom. 

"She didn't go for it," Vicky said, taking her seat again across from Trevor. At the table across the way, Tahani swept her skirt to one side of her chair before she sat down, so that it draped becomingly over the side. Cate gave Tahani one of her famous half-lidded smiles, and Tahani reached up to touch her own nape. Vicky, rolling her eyes, downed her wine.

"Ah shit," Trevor said. "Welp. You want another? I've got to go crash this college dork-fest tomorrow morning and you know me, I gotta do it hungover."

"Yeah," Vicky said. "Sure. Bring on the booze."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any art-history-, figure-skating-, or hair-styling-related mistakes in this sucker; my house was broken into during the composition, which took away from my available time to have it fact-checked. 
> 
> All section & story titles are drawn from the names of acting exercises. But not from the actual substance of the acting exercises themselves, about which I know nothing. Don't @ me. 
> 
> Michael Ancher's "A Stroll on the Beach" (1896):  
>   
> Tom Roberts's "Jealousy" (1889):  
>   
> Michelle Kwan's 2002 purple Vera Wang skating outfit, which thanks to Bad Place magic now fits Tahani:  
>   
> Nancy Kerrigan's 1992 Vera Wang skating outfit, on which Eleanor's is based:  
> 


End file.
